A Tale of Blood
by Allen Bedillion Trahurn
Summary: Malsasa, A Khajiit from a tribe that trains in the Thu'um, comes to Skyrim after hearing the rumors of Dragons during his travels. He meets up with many of the organizations in Skyrim, including the Dawnguard, where he frees the vampiress Serana. M for graphic descriptions and such. R&R please.
1. Prologue

Malsasa held his wounded face as he wandered from his home. At fifteen, he was now an outcast among the Swiftclaw Tribe. His own tribe. He knew that word would travel quickly across the sands and jungles of Elsweyr, and that soon he wouldn't even be welcome among the traveling merchants. He would have to leave...find his own place in the world. His only question...where?

_Six years later..._

All Malsasa could think now was that he knew it. He knew something like this...this exact scenario actually, would happen. He watched as the wagon trundled just ahead of the line of prisoners, especially the chest full of all his gear: his armor, his blade, his shield, and his other provisions. Ahead of him was a Nord, speaking lowly to himself about the Stormcloaks, and behind him was a Dunmer, pleading that he was innocent.

_"It won't save you, fool,"_ Malsasa thought darkly, _"it was foolish of you to steal that coin purse...especially with this war going on."_ Malsasa didn't know much about the civil war in Skyrim, and he didn't really care. After years of traveling on his own, he had come to Skyrim, looking for a place to finally call home. It wasn't like the warm lands of Elsweyr, but it would have to do.

A cool wind blew across Malsasa then, making his black fur, complete with white tiger stripes, stand on end. His eyes, the right amber colored while the other glowed a strange green, were wary. His right eye was different only because of the curse his father had placed on him, for misusing the power of the Thu'um, for which the Swiftclaw were well known for. The green glow was representative of a sort of limit to his abilities: his knowledge of any Shout would have to be relearned if he wanted to use them. Along with the glow were three claw marks, showing the method in which he had been cursed.

"Keep moving, prisoner," ordered the Imperial guard, jabbing Malsasa in the side with the butt of his spear. The Khajiit snarled but said nothing before turning his attention back to the long walk. Death couldn't be too far now, right?

_Fwip_

Malsasa barely heard the sound of the bowstring before the arrow whizzed by, a blur that ended with a splatter of blood and a groan as on of the guards fell. Before they could react, Nords dressed in Stormcloak regalia burst from the shrubbery surrounding the caravan, blood flying and steel clashing as the battle erupted. The Dunmer didn't last very long, his head in the way of an unfortunate axe blow. The Nord, however, dashed forward, ramming the nearest guard and knocking him prone. Malsasa took his chance and pounced, a foot landing on the guards throat before he pressed down, hearing a sickening yet satisfying squelching sound coming from the man. Malsasa would have finished the deed as well, were he not almost instantly labeled a threat. He backed away and stood side-by-side with the Nord, who had somehow gotten his hands out from behind his back, though they were still bound. In his hands was a small knife.

"Can you fight, Khajiit?" he asked, eyeing Malsasa.

"What?"

"Can you fight?" he asked again, and Malsasa nodded in response. With a swift motion, The Nord got behind Malsasa and cut his bindings, freeing his hands as a Stormcloak fell nearby, his blade falling at the Khajiit's feet. Malsasa smiled menacingly, kicking the blade up and holding it firmly before him, other hand held up as balance, and with his claws they seemed more like a sidearm.

The first to approach was a guard using a warhammer. He rushed Malsasa and brought the hammer down, the head meeting with air as the more agile combatant sidestepped around, jabbing his blade into an open spot in his armor, the blade biting into flesh, with fresh blood running down the blade. Malsasa's ears swiveled as he heard the next guard stomp forward, brandishing a hand axe. Grabbing a part of the dying mans armor, Malsasa pulled his impaled victim around between himself and his new attacker, his enemies axe cutting through armor only to be stuck. The Khajiit pushed the weight of the now dead man to the side, forcing the axe out of the guards hand just as Malsasa's blade cut across his throat. He fell to the ground, sputtering. The third and final guard only stared in disbelief. Just from the sound of his breathing he could tell that this one was a new recruit, still wet behind the ears.

"If you value your life you'll surrender here. Lay your weapon down and lie in the back of the wagon," Malsasa said, and watched as the boy did exactly as he was told. The Khajiit then followed, jumping into the back of the window and taking a quick look back and forth before leaning down to the boy.

"Keys? You have the keys to that chest, right?" Nodding, the boy pulled a brass ring with several keys up from his waist, flipping through them shakily before holding up a small silver one. Malsasa snatched it and went to work, unlocking the padlock and finding what he was looking for: a steel blade and a set of iron plate armor, and a heavy iron shield. Perfect.

"What are you doing up there, Khajiit?" a voice asked, and Malsasa looked down to see that, somehow, the battle was already over, and he was now surrounded by Stormcloak soldiers. One man stood out among the rest, since he was the only Nord who was nude from the waist up.

"Leave him, brothers. He isn't one of them."

"But what if he still gives us away?" asked another. After a few moments of bickering the leader, wearing a bearskin helmet, spoke up.

"Silence, all of you! Our business isn't with him. We need to move on, before they find us," then, to Malsasa, "if you want you can travel with us, Khajiit, you may. We are on our way to Windhelm, to speak with Ulfric Stormcloak."

"No...I think I'll-" Malsasa started to answer, only to be interrupted by a thunderous multitude of voices ring out from the heavens.

"DOVAHKIIN!"

Startled, the Stormcloaks looked around in amazement.

"What in Nirn was that?" asked Malsasa.

"That was the Greybeards, up on High Hrothgar," said one Nord, "no doubt about it. With the dragons about, it was only a matter of time before the legends would come true, and the Dovahkiin, the 'Dragonborn', would walk among us. He who can use the Thu'um as the Greybeards do, without training."

"All right, off with it," the leader of the group yelled, "the Khajiit said he doesn't want to go with us, and the Greybeards speaking mean nothing to us. We need to move. If you ever need assistance, seek Ulfric in Windhelm." Then, almost as siwftly as they had come, the Stormcloaks left, making a loud clamor as they did so, leaving Malsasa alone.

"High Hrothgar, huh? I'll have to make a visit."


	2. A Near Death Experience

**Thank you for the favorites and the follows, they mean a lot to me. I'll be continuing this, as the Dawnguard storyline...well, it didn't end the way I wanted it to. Please, read and review.**

"Gah...had I known that the weather would truly be so horrible...I might have in Morrowind...or gone to Black Marsh instead," Malsasa said, pulling his armor closer to himself, the padding on the inside providing little to no warmth. He would have to purchase some winter-treated armor in the next town he went to. Unfortunately, Ivarstead was...somewhat lacking in that regard, which was strange considering the residents made their home at the base of the largest mountain in Skyrim. No matter.

"How much higher must I climb? I know it is called the Seven Thousand Steps for a reason, but it feels as if I-" Malsasa said, before something caught his attention in the blizzard he found himself walking through. Something moving.

"Show yourself!" Malsasa called to whatever awaited him, drawing his blade and holding his shield up before him. Out from the white curtain of snow walked a hulking creature, covered in coarse white hair. It had long arms, and its hands were tipped with three talons. The beast growled, saliva dripping from yellowed fangs, and its three eyes gleamed menacingly. At once, Malsasa could identify the creature.

"A Frost Troll, eh? If I still had the power of my Voice, I would burn you with the breath of a dragon, beast! Still, I suppose you will have to make due with the cold steel of my blade!" the Khajiit said, and the creature charged, roaring as it used all its limbs to run. Malsasa braced himself as the beast lifted its arms and brought them down on his shield, barely withstanding the blow. He responded with his own strike, piercing through the trolls fur and slicing through the things flesh, blood splling onto the snow and melting through the white powder, making slightly steaming puddles. The beast roared in outrage and struck again, this time knocking the shield to Malsasa's side before kicking him in the chest, knocking him back into a snow drift.

"Wretched thing," Malsasa, lifting himself as quickly possible and returning to his defensive stance, green eye glowing with ethereal light. What he had said before was true: if he hadn't been cursed, he would still have his full knowledge of Shouts. As it was now, he could barely recall a single syllable of the dragon's speech. As the troll approached, Malsasa tensed, preparing to spring to the right or left. It seemed that Sai, the God of Luck, was smiling on him now, as the troll lifted both arms to smash down on him – a relatively slow and easily evadable attack. Just before the troll swung its arms down in a crushing blow, Malsasa jumped to the side, rolling around behind the creature. Before it could react, the Khajiit hacked at his foe, blade cutting satisfyingly deep into the monsters back, his blade turning crimson with the blood. As the beast turned, enraged, Malsasa took a risk, jabbing at the things eyes with a horizontal slash. His blade made contact, its eyes injured and its sight hindered by the blood.

"Time to finish this," Malsasa said sheathing his blade as he stepped back, noting that his enemy was wandering dangerously close to the cliff side. Bracing his shoulder, Malsasa took a few quick breaths and charged, ramming the beast and giving it that final push off the ledge. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to enjoy his victory, as the Khajiit made a small slip and began to fall himself.

"Ugh!" he groaned, just barely catching the ledge. The fight had made his arms weak, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to climb back up. He thought of calling for help, but he knew that he wouldn't be heard, especially up here. However, it seemed that Sai still smiled on him.

"Take my hand!" called a voice, just before a gauntlet clad hand shot down to him. Malsasa took it gladly, looking up at his savior, and he was surprised to see that it was a Dunmer woman. She wore warm looking leather armor, and a tight fitting helmet to match. On her back was a black cape, and at her sides were a pair of blades. Her right eye was blood red, and her left eye was milky white with blindness. After Malsasa was lifted to safety, the Dark Elf smiled sarcastically.

"So, I take it you thought you would land on your feet?"

"Clever, but no," Malsasa answered, a smirk of his own appearing, "but where were you during the battle with the troll?"

"Maybe one hundred steps or so behind you? Count yourself lucky I saw you fall at all, Khajiit," she answered, crossing her arms.

"I suppose I owe you a debt, Dunmer. You may call me Malsasa. And you are?" Malsasa continued, and the Dunmer smiled with pride.

"Oh me, you can call me whatever you want. My name is Quaintana, but lately people have been calling me something else."

"Yes?"

"Dovahkiin."


End file.
